


Pull Me In

by xdominoe



Category: Homestuck
Genre: F/F, Fluff, Injury Recovery, Pale-Red Vacillation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-13
Updated: 2015-01-13
Packaged: 2018-03-07 09:18:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3169565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xdominoe/pseuds/xdominoe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Kanaya Maryam has an unexpected visitor, Vriska Serket is extremely lucky, and everybody gets some sleep. CW for vague mentions of injuries and blood. Title taken from the song Unavoidable by Neon Trees.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pull Me In

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Rhe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rhe/gifts).



==> Kanaya: Answer the door.

 

Your name is Kanaya Maryam, and you have had a very long day.

A long day that just got longer, apparently, because just as you’re settling in to get some reading done before it’s time to go to sleep, a knock sounds at the door.  

Okay, perhaps calling it a knock would be too generous. It’s more of a strange, muffled thumping noise, really, but it’s loud enough that it jolts you away from the rather riveting page you were on. It’s quite a shame, but it seems as though your relaxing evening will have to wait.

You get to the door just as whoever is on the other side is making that strange thumping noise again and you yank it open, prepared to tell them off for being so very rude, really—

Except the words die on your tongue when you see it, when you see _her,_ bloody and bruised, one hand clutching at her side and the other still raised in the air because apparently she used her entire forearm to make that weird sound against the door.

“Hey,” is all she says, well, croaks, really, her lips bloody and curled into an improbable smile. The lenses of her glasses are splintered, spiderweb cracked, and isn’t that oh so poetic, but you don’t have long to appreciate the thought, because you’re rather occupied with dragging her inside, the lovely brocade fabrics on the floor be damned. Her laugh is a little hushed with pain, and yes, that’s regrettable, but honestly, neither of you would be here if she didn’t keep getting into messes like this.

You don’t speak until she’s been successfully transferred to her usual spot on the counter in your kitchen, and even then it’s only to ask, “What did you do this time?”

She rolls her eyes, the grin widening even as her bottom lip splits. “I’m fine, Fussyfangs, it’s nothing out of the ordinary.” That’s true, at least—you’ve lost track of how many times she’s shown up like this, her nails caked with dirt and her body covered in bruises. FLARPing is just such an unhealthy habit, it’s a shame she’s so good at it.

This time is different, though. “You didn’t tell me you were coming,” you say, and you almost wince at how tightly coiled your voice sounds.

A shrug pushes at her shoulders and she’s clearly trying to pretend it doesn’t hurt, despite the darkening bruise you can see peeking out of her collar. “Slipped my mind.”

With a sigh, you click open your box of miscellaneous supplies, your fingers finding a familiar bottle and a roll of cloth. This, at least, is routine. Find the blood, wipe it away, clean her skin, don’t let your eyes linger too long. Easy.

Your lips twist into a frown as you imagine the mess you’ll have to clean after this, but nonetheless, you get to work.

 

==> Vriska: Accept her offer.

 

Your name is Vriska Serket, and you’re a mess.

It’s a fact of which you’ve been more or less aware for your entire life, spent surrounded by broken black glass and rainbow blood. Tonight it’s especially apparent, given your current state. Most everything is bruised, a couple of things are broken, probably, and there _she_ is, standing in front of you, pristine as ever and her jaw set like stone. She’s the only one you’ll go to like this, though you’d never tell her that. She’ll patch you up, admonish you, and send you on your way; you’ll grin through the pain, ignore the little hint of disappointment in her shoulders and the way her eyes never quite reach yours.

Like normal.

You’re used to this, to angling your arms so your shirt will come off and breathing hard when her fingers are just a tad more forceful than necessary and gritting your teeth when her pretty sewing needles go through your skin. It’s such a waste of thread, you know she’s thinking it, and you’re lucky she’s got so many fabric scraps to cover all the scrapes. You’re used to leaving the way you came, swaths of red and green and purple soft against the fading aches.

This time is different, though. She’s more worried than normal, because you’re worse than you usually are, and your brain was so clouded with the crack of breaking bones and the tang of blood in your mouth that you forgot to tell her you were coming. It hasn’t been this bad in a long time.

So when she ties off the thread and cuts that pretty needle away from the skin of your stomach, you sigh, shoulders slumping, and open your mouth.

“Hey…”

It’s not much but it catches her eye; she looks up at your face for the first time in what feels like a sweep. Her brow is frozen like _not another word_ but her eyes are soft enough that you continue anyway.

“I’m sorry.” It’s the truth, after all. If nothing else, you’re sorry you have to keep showing up like this, that those chumps out on the field manage to one-up you enough that it breaks your skin. And maybe there’s just a twinge of remorse in your blood pusher for the numerous bottles of who knows what that she’s wasted on you.

But you know her, you know what her fingers feel like when she’s not in a forgiving mood, so you’re not expecting her to answer “Stay the night.”

All the air leaves you at once in the shape of “Okay,” which is even more surprising. But hey, you were caught off guard, and it’s not like you were ever going to say no. 

It seems to make her relax, at any rate, and her skin feels warmer somehow as she presses ice to a bruise on your foot. The quiet is less sharp than before.

“How did you make it this far?” she murmurs eventually, in the middle of wrapping up your swelling forearm with a pretty bit of cloth that’s covered in flowers. 

“Guess I’m just lucky,” you respond, and something in you unwinds when you see her lips twitching into a smile.

 

==> Kanaya: Patch her up.

 

You wince as you examine her arm, the bruise stretching from her neck and almost touching her elbow.

She must notice the look on your face because she slowly pulls her hair over her other shoulder and says, “I’ve had worse.” That’s not something you quite believe, because you’ve never seen her this bad. Scrapes and bruises and cuts deep enough to need stitching, sure, but broken bones are new.

Still, you don’t respond, just hold her shoulder in one firm hand and use the other to realign her bones. There’s a nasty click and you hear her gasp, but it’s done, and you tie it off with some of that beautiful silk you have other plans for.

You won’t need all of it, anyway.

“Done,” you say quietly, and start to pack up the bottles and jars. The needle and thread follow after, and then a few scraps of cloth, and then you close the box and put it away.

When you turn back to her she’s standing again, looking a little uncertain, and you understand because this time is different. This is unfamiliar territory, but her eyes relax when you brace her good arm around your shoulders and lead her towards the next block.

She ends up more or less covered in pillows, once the two of you manage to find your way to the reclining cushion, and you tuck yourself neatly against her side, because it’s the only space left for you to go.

It’s quiet, and for a while, the sound of her rasping breaths is enough to settle the little shake in your blue-stained fingers. The sight of her, all swelling muscles and bruised skin, makes you reach to the cut in her lip, your thumb brushing over it, and it takes you a moment to realize that’s wrong.

But she’s not reacting, she hasn’t said a thing, she just turns to watch you with an unnameable look in her eye.

You hold her gaze for a moment before your eyes slip closed, your hand pulling away. You focus on nothing but quietly breathing for a bit, you aren’t sure how long because your pulse is too erratic to measure.

Then you feel her fingers in your hair and you can’t help but look back up at her. She’s got the faintest trace of a smile on her face, but she’s no longer watching you, her gaze directed somewhere off to the side.

You open your mouth before you’re quite sure what to say, and what comes out is, “You’ve had worse?”

Her smile widens and she nods a bit—and this is back to normal, her eyes fired up with energy and memory and light, and you unable to look away. She says, “Just once,” and there’s a story there.

“Pray tell,” you answer, because this is the best you’ve felt all day.

 

==> Vriska: Spin a story.

 

You laugh, because you can see her eyebrow raise even though your shoulder is blocking out most of her face from this angle. A moment ago, your hand reaching against her scalp was a little weird, but now it’s perfectly natural to pet at her hair, shifting just a little so you can tell the story right.

“Well, it was near sunset, and Marquise Spinneret Mindfang had a dastardly plan to put into action…”

The words start to fly off your tongue because this is easy, and storytelling has always been your forte, and if you throw in a little embellishment here and there just to watch her jump and gasp and laugh in all the right places, then nobody’s here to call you on it.

The story starts to wind down, and by now you’ve both shifted so that she’s got an arm slung around your waist and her head on your shoulder, looking interestedly to where your free hand is gesturing along. She looks like she’s starting to doze, her eyelids dropping bit by bit, so your voice hushes a little and the story reaches its close.

By the time you say “The end,” her weight has settled comfortably against you and her breaths are starting to even out. She’s cute like this; the little frown that seems to tug at her lips whenever she’s around you is smoothed out and she looks… happy.

This time is different, you think quietly to yourself, and it’s the last thought on your mind as you press your cracked lips to her forehead and close your eyes. 


End file.
